A Fanfiction Carol
by SakakiTaiyou
Summary: Based vaguely on Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," AFC revolves around an anime fan named Marcia Laverne Whitaker. Under the penname M.L. Writer, she writes terrible fanfiction ... and she does so prolifically. One night, a set of spirits come and tak
1. Default Chapter

Based vaguely on the Charles Dickens story "A Christmas Carol," _A Fanfiction Carol_ revolves around an anime fan named Marcia Laverne Whitaker. Under the penname M.L. Writer, she writes terrible fanfiction ... and she does so prolifically. One night, a set of spirits (or ghosts, if you wish) come and take her to the worst of her crimes in an effort to change this threat to the fanfiction world.

Not precisely a crossover in the direct sense of characters from two different series meeting each other, but more in the sense that Marcia travels through many universes in a single November night. You'll find major references to _Trigun, DBZ,_ and _Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time_, and minor references from other stuff. ^_^

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**Element One.** _M.L. Writer_

In her own opinion, the pencil was not just mightier than the sword. It was more potent than the atomic bomb, more colossal than a nuclear blast, more massive than a volcano on crack.

Or at least ... it would have been, had she the skills, the brains, and the concepts to match up with her endless, unbeatable idealism and over-the-top faith in her own abilities. Vision was not hers to possess in this lifetime, nor was the way of words. Notions such as "rough drafts," "grammar," and "spell checking" to her seemed archaic; critiques were outmoded, outdated, and useless.

Perhaps if she had some more honest friends, it would have been different, and the world would have been spared her beastly brutality with the English language. But she had no friends, and her stories were inevitably so revolting in their stupidity, no one dared make a comment or tell her the truth. They usually didn't even finish reading them, and Marcia Laverne Whitaker was none the wiser. She wrote, and wrote, and wrote, endless cycles of worrying over plot points and puns (the meaning of both was always missed by everyone but herself) ... sometimes Marcia went so far as to deny herself food and drink, all for _her_ "art." _Her_ "art," _her_ "craft." Sometimes she had dreams where she was the sole possessor of _the_ piece of fanfiction that would revolutionize the world. There would be thousands of shrines to M.L. Writer (her penname) on the web, and the mailing lists she ignorantly plagued would worship her daily.

She was passionate, true. But careless.

It was a November night, three days after the birthday party that no one but an old drooling grandaunt had come to. Inspired by the gray determined depression that this gaunt relative she couldn't remember the name of exuded, Marcia again stopped eating. The moment her birthday carrot cake touched her fleshy lips, she could take no more of the reminder that she existed on a planet that cared not a whit for her. So, these three suns later, her feeble mind was holding out against her body's desire for sustencence. An idea had not come yet. She felt convinced that an idea could never come as long as she took in food of any earthly origin.

She had never gone this long without food before. Always ideas had frolicked in her mind, all she had to do was pick one to take home with her and continue on her merry way. Marcia scratched her scalp through her brown hair, thinking more of her stomach than her keyboard. She felt woozy indeed as she wove her way down the street, towards the home that no one but the lights on electric timers were in.

  


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	2. Element Two. The Face on the Doorknocke...

**Element Two.** _The Face on the Doorknocker_

Pulling her red, rough woolen scarf closer still to her neck, she shivered and hesitantly made her way up the steps to the door of the Whitaker home. The roses were all frozen, the grass had gone brown ... Marcia, poor Marcia, was the last little bit of color that lived and breathed on this gloomy eve.

With hands numb from the chill, she located the door, deep within the stone archway that enclosed it. She vaguely felt the rough wood, barely sensed the splinters becoming one with her bluish fingers, fingers which moved only out of desperation in order to find _something_ to hold on to.

Marcia's digits brushed over the door knocker, an antique monstrosity of brass and tarnish. Looking up dizzily, she blinked those uncomprehending emerald orbs of hers at what appeared to be not the family crest, but more of ... more of ... she leapt backwards as best she could, nearly falling down the steps behind her in an undignified mess of limbs, skin, and yellow coat. She was staring at a face that stared back, mute and silent ... a bystander would have been hard-pressed to say which face looked more astonished and horrified. Was it Marcia, or this strange spirit that decided to possess the door of a home that was nearly always silent except for the clacking of keys ...?

But there was no one, and Marcia was alone with this visage she could not recognize.

Shaken, she rose to her feet, and by closing her eyes, proceeded to ignore this strange being on the doorknocker. Again she felt the door with her transparent hands, which were more chubby than graceful, searching this time with a purpose - for the doorknob. When she felt the round come into her grasp, she twisted and practically dashed in, shutting the door and thus the gawking, pupil-less eyes out. _It's not my problem,_ she told herself. _Some idiot did that probably to scare me. I don't care. I don't care. I ... don't ... care._ She took great pains to emphasize each of those three words in her mind. She repeated them over and over to herself as she took to the darkened flight of stairs, now feeling feverish and hot.

  


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	3. Element Three. The Ghost of HFR

**Element Three.** _The Ghost of HFR_

She silently removed her outer garments to the tune of much groaning and creaking from sources undeniably other than herself. Every now and then a great wail would pierce through the oaken floor beneath her striped-stockinged feet, and she scrambled to ensconce herself safely within her massive chair, deep inside the glow of her mighty computer screen. Her savior, her relief, her protection from everything ... she opened a word processing program and sat, listening both to the cacophony about her and the beating of her own heart, but refusing to admit to either.

A distinct syllable rang outside her door, and she clutched her mouse tightly in her sweaty palm. It returned again and again, louder and more miserable each time, as though the maker of the noise was leaning in and practically dousing the door with floods of tears. "Ugh," it came, crystal clear and right behind her left shoulder.

Marcia jumped in her padded seat helplessly, resisting the urge to do anything required to escape, be it knocking her beloved printer to the floor or indeed burning a hole through the side of her room. She wasn't a coward. She didn't care! "Ugh," said the voice again, and Marcia brandished her mouse like a sword, turning to face her tormentor.

"UGH!" squelched the voice, and Marcia shrieked as she recognized the visage from the doorknocker. She tried (with much enthusiasm) to climb over the back of the chair, but the being spun the chair and blocked her path, and she found herself nose to nose with what appeared to be a ghost.

"You did this to me," the phantom said. "It's all your fault. And tonight, you shall discover it all. You shall _see everything_, and your wretchedly _slow_ mind will soon come to _grips_ with vaunted _reality_! I am here to _warn_ you, M. L. Writer, that your education is at _hand_!"

There was something about the ghost's evangelical delivery of his speech that struck a chord within Marcia. But it was the wrong chord, for the right one had, as of this moment, always been asleep. It was the sleepy heartstring that the shade was aiming for, and it was the one he missed by a mile. Marcia began laughing her hearty, high-pitched laugh, and the ghost began sobbing. The cause was hopeless.

"Who _are_ you?" giggled Marcia madly, poking the spirit in the chest and then proceeding to spear him with her nails, finding his inability to be injured quite humorous. He had no chains to rattle nor any boxes of money to throw at her, and moreover with the luminous tears he shed he seemed quite ... harmless. She stuck her hand through his head and drew it out again, unable to believe that she had been so frightened of such a pathetic soul.

"Stop that," he said, trying forlornly to keep her from playing tricks with his transparency. "I am the Ghost of the Hapless Fanfiction Reader. And," he continued as he attempted to return to his earlier, more dramatic and ominous mode of talk, "you will _pay_, girl, you will know the _price_ of this pain you cause!"

There was an extended pause.

He had lost Marcia totally. Forget about being on the same page, she wasn't on the same chapter. Then again ... between looking at him blankly and piercing his non-existent heart with a pencil, she wasn't even on the same _book_. He had a sudden, intense desire to slap her. Or maybe tranquilize her. Either one. Preferably with one of those big darts made for elephants.

Slowly, he drew back. With a ministerial-type of a ponderous weight to his actions, he stood and stalked out of the room, stiff-legged, hackles on the back of his neck upright. He didn't care, he kept on telling himself. He ... didn't ... care. She wasn't worth it, anyhow.

  


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	4. Element Four. The Ghost of Punnage Past

**Element Four.** _The Ghost of Punnage Past._

'Twas with a heavy heart that Marcia paused in her merry mirth, suddenly taken with an ... illustrious idea. Spinning back 'round she grasped her keyboard firmly within her well-calloused fingers and began typing, committing errors that even the most lenient of English instructors would have felt faint at. She whipped off a tortured tale of wisecracks and whatnot, mostly revolving around Knives, who was her least favorite _Trigun_ character. She despised him because she thought she understood him, although on average she was about as out of the ballpark as the city limits were. For all that, she thought she was dealing with his angst on very decent terms, and was in fact as pleasant as it was possible to be with a character one loathed and scorned on many levels. It was a relief for many _Trigun_ fanatics that Knives was merely fictional, and could not sense the horrible abuse that this M. L. Writer sent him through.

Then again, if he were real, he would have creamed Marcia into itty-bitty subatomic dust. So some _Trigun_ worshipers prayed for his sudden existence in this realm, and were constantly disappointed in his non-appearance.

But Marcia was satisfied, and to her mind that was all that really mattered.

With a sigh of gratification, she rose from her chair and took to her bed like a large, overfed whale. Marcia pulled the floral and plaid blankets up about her chin and awaited the arrival of dreamland, which was always an excellent source for more undeniably Marcia-ish fic concepts. She rolled on her side and conked out within minutes, unremarkably without the aid of the tranquilizer dart that the Ghost of HFR had so yearned for.

And that was when the sounds began again, pealing more obnoxiously this time, and accompanied by some sort of odd "whoosh whoosh" breathing. The words "I _told_ you so, girl! You shall _know_! You _shall_ know!" which repeated endlessly like a bad case of an annoying commercial jingle caused the sleeping Marcia no end of discomfort, and she tossed and turned like the sea under a hurricane. With a whimper and a squeak, she fell to the floor and opened her eyes.

She gazed upon a pair of pale feet, more than a little perplexed and completely tangled within her cocoon of paisley sheets. "How ... how did you get in here!?" she cried, unable to believe that this was happening again. This was no Ghost of HFR. This spirit looked nothing short of livid, and despite her short stature, one got the sensation that a harangue from her ravened tongue would scrape at least two layers of skin off the eardrum.

The wraith suddenly seemed rather tired. "You left the front door unlocked," she shrugged.

Oh, that was _it_ for Marcia. This spirit world had crossed the line! She rose to her feet like a mighty Titan and stormed towards the petite blue shadow, hollering things like "get losted" and "you ... you ... you" at regular intervals and high octaves.

"I think not," said the ghost as she raised a hand and sent Marcia flying back to her bed. "For you see, I am the Ghost of Punnage Past, and I am the first of your instructors ... nay, masters in this long November eve."

Marcia blinked and began to sniffle, but the Ghost of Punnage Past would have none of it. A thin beam of yellow light erupted from the crown of her small head, and she latched tightly onto Marcia's trembling wrist. "We shall first take a journey," murmured the spirit authoritatively and mysteriously, "to the scene of your latest crime. Refusal," she said as Marcia had dug her heels deep into the carpet, "is not an option."

With a tug she easily disengaged Marcia from where she stood stuck, and strode purposefully towards the window. Marcia balked.

"Your not real," she said. "Can't we just use the door?"

The Ghost of Punnage Past raised a silver eyebrow. "For that misuse of language," she intoned, "however slight, we shall indeed go through the window."

  


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	5. Element Five. The Lesson of the Ghost o...

**Element Five.** _The Lesson of the Ghost of Punnage Past_

This was no fic. This was _no_ fic. This was _no fic_.

Marcia Laverne Whitaker, a.k.a. the infamous M.L. Writer, was being escorted through the brisk, starry night sky by a specter whose patience for small talk was remarkably limited. Every time Marcia said a word, the Ghost of Punnage Past made a face as though she wished she could cover her ears, but was prevented from doing so by the fact that if she loosened her grip on Marcia by just the slightest tiny bit, Marcia would go plummeting twenty stories down, ending in a nice resounding splat.

The idea was indeed quite tempting to the Ghost of Punnage Past, but she realized that ridding the world of the massive menace would not be accomplished so easily. No, if that were to happen, there was a sizable risk that poor unloved Marcia would be martyred and raised to a new level by the society in which her family orbited around, and that was something no one could chance. So instead education was the plan at hand, and the Ghost of Punnage Past would do anything to see sanity through to Marcia's vapid mind.

She looked back at Marcia. Marcia was trying her best to curl up into a ball around the wrist that bound her to the sky, but she lacked the abdominal muscles necessary to do so and maintain such a position without any type of floor beneath her feet. The Ghost of Punnage Past had no patience, as was well known, but she also wasn't cruel. She closed her eyes and the beam of brilliance that came from her crown surrounded them completely. Marcia might indeed panic now, for there was no going back until this was all over. The event horizon had come and passed, and she was well on her bumbling way to knowing the truth.

When the light faded, Marcia found herself sitting upright against a metal counter, wearing what appeared to be a frilly apron with the ubiquitous Kuronekosama visage adorning the "Anime Diner" logo on the chest. She swallowed, her tongue feeling thick and fuzzy, and as she looked out over a sea of Knives, she began to realize that she had been taken into her own fic. The one she had just been writing, even ...

The Ghost of Punnage Past sat daintily on a counter, gazing at Marcia with a sight that could not be interpreted. "Well," she said. "Go on. You have a few souls waiting to be served." She motioned outwards with her right hand, indicating the dining room filled with blond, blue-eyed ... somewhat cruel and sadistic bishounen. There was no smile on her angelic face.

Marcia gulped. "But I, I don't have a tray ..."

"Nonsense," said the apparition. "It's right behind you. Powers above us wrote it in, since you did the fic a grand discourtesy in mechanics by forgetting it. Play along; you'll see. I don't have to make you go, do I?"

"Nn...no," Marcia stuttered. She turned and took up the weatherbeaten tray, dreading what she knew would be on top of it. Indeed, it was there. _That_ confection. She herself had put it to type, made it real. She had a sudden sense somewhat like intuition, had she any, that this sugary concoction was going to get her painfully killed. Attempting to be as cutesy as she possibly could, she sauntered in the dining room and selected one Knives from the score of silent souls that stared at and right through her.

"Here," she said, placing the white, fluffy cake in front of him, trembling as the ashen, crackled plate clanged raucously against the naked wooden table. "It's not just any cake," she continued, her voice running from hale and hearty into the weakest whisper she could muster. "It's angel food cake."

Knives stared at her. She couldn't help but stare at his arms.

"And, uh," Marcia squeaked, reaching up to her tray once more. "Have a knife to eat it with!" She thrust the worn silverware on the tabletop and then dropped the tray with alacrity as Knives stood, pushing the chair back with a distinct ruffled sound. The twenty other Knives' in the room followed suit, and solitary Marcia began shrieking as shrilly as she could.

"Please no kill!!" she screeched like a harpy. "No no no no!"

It was quite clear that the many Knives' weren't taking her seriously. "Oh, oh, oh!" she breathed, looking about her wildly for some way to escape. "I, I am, uh ..." Her eyes fell upon her apron. _What can I say!?_

A moment of clarity came to her right then and there. "I am KURONEKOSAMA!" she proclaimed loudly, sticking her hands on her head in order to represent ears. "You don't kill cats! So you can't kill me! I am a cat! Meow meow! Meow meow!" Her eyes were just as green as Kuronekosama's ... what an excellent stroke of luck! She _knew_ this would work. Things like this always worked for her fanfic characters, and they were the epitome of everything she ever wanted to be. She didn't like Knives, and thought he was stupid anyway.

Again, there was a long pause. Shortly thereafter, Marcia was incinerated in a ball of black bizarreness conducted along by several comments on her origins, her mind, and her lack of intelligible _point_ or _purpose_.

She woke up shortly thereafter, feeling her back again against the metal counter, wondering if this was some sort of bizarre _Groundhog's Day_ treatment that she was receiving, wondering if she had to make the right choice in order to stop the sequence of events from going that far again.

"Well?"

It was her again. The Ghost of Punnage Past sat where she had sat before, pausing after her sentences as she always did, and in general acted like nothing had happened at all. "Go on. You have a few souls waiting to be served ... or ...?"

Marcia shook her head mutely.

"Excellent choice," the ethereal being nodded sagely. "You begin to pick up on why no one ever wants to read what you write. It causes them _pain_, doesn't it, as it caused you? You see ... they cannot follow where you're going or what you're laughing about, and that alienates them. With that strike against you ... puns as you are so fond of often count as sheer bloody murder. Do you understand?"

Quaking inside, Marcia drew her knees up to her chest and nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. She stared at her striped socks. This wasn't true, couldn't be, never was, never should be ... people read them, people liked her fanfiction, didn't they? Didn't they ...? No one ever said anything _bad_ ... there was no reason for this, no reason no reason ...

"I will take you back," said the Ghost of Punnage Past gently. "But do not try to sleep, for there are two more spirits who shall visit you tonight. I cannot guarantee how gentle their guidance shall be ... but it is nothing that shall ever kill you, only cause you to grow. Change for the better, despite the pain that might well be necessary for you, this ... this, as we shall lead to, is indeed _growth_."

Quietly Marcia shed tears of confusion, and the Ghost of Punnage Past stepped close to her. Kneeling, she stated her deepest truth she guarded to Marcia in the softest, clearest voice she could. "All writers must grow, must progress, must continually see things anew. Even you, M.L. Writer."

  


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	6. Element Six. The Ghost of (Sub) Standar...

**Element Six.** _The Ghost of (Sub) Standard Romance_

Marcia Laverne Whitaker shook her head violently and found herself abed panting, sheets tangled around her, a web with 200 thread count and fraying rapidly. She furrowed her brows and ploughed her way to her computer (affectionately dubbed "Minmei"), uncertain in some respects but uncowed in others.

There suddenly appeared atop the monitor, amongst a plume of tissues and silver foil packets, a small man. His auburn hair curled prettily about his ears and his cheeks were rosy, as was his nose. His nose outshone his hair, as a matter of fact, redder than Rudolph's and polished to a brilliant gleam. He coughed, and made some rather congested sounds. This tiny foot-tall spirit had a _cold_.

Marcia knew better than to laugh this time. These seraphs looked strange and all, but they had unpleasant reality-check side effects that had not previously been calculated into her shameless giggle for self-preservation purposes. "Um ..." she stalled, watching with horror as the specter wiped his nose with his scarlet sleeve and resisting the sudden urge to do the same. "Tissue ...?"

"No thanks," said the apparition, with a voice both nasal and lyrical. "I've got more where these came from," he muttered as he pointed to the massive pile on which he sat. "Anyway," he hacked out, "I'm the Ghost of (Sub) Standard Romance. You and I have a date with destiny, it seems."

"No we do not," said Marcia, backing up quickly. He appeared to be on some sort of powerful (although ineffective) decongestant, perhaps she could convince him that his goal was either nonexistent or pointless. "I don't write romance things," she declared authoritatively. "They're too gooey and mushy and stuff for me!" Whistling, she rolled back and forth on the balls of her feet a bit, and studied the soul out of the corner of her dull, round eye.

"I beg to differ," he sighed as he stood slowly. "Not a day goes by where I don't find one of your pieces of bantha fodder piled up on my desk, hiding the vitally important stuff like my medicine, covering it with reams upon reams of your astounding ignorance. The Ghost of Punnage Past had to be _told_ to come here. Now _I_, on the other hand, came quite willingly."

Marcia already wanted to cry. She was being lectured by a Munchkin straight out of the _Wizard of Oz_. "What are you going to do," she sniffled, too bland to avoid asking the obvious. "Where are we going?"

"We're staying right here," said the Ghost of (Sub) Standard Romance. "And I am going to read to you."

Marcia blinked.

"Oh yes indeed," he nodded. "Pull up a chair, strap yourself in if possible. I recommend using some nice strong rope, actually. Good heft, good weight, you know what I mean?" Marcia nodded blankly and sat on the floor, watching the lilliputian lad warily. He made a hacking sound and bent over forwards, then straightened himself with script in hand.

"'My Meeting With Trunks,'" he commenced. "'by: M.L. Writer. Steal and die.'"

  


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	7. Element Seven. Simple Truths

**Element Seven.** _Simple Truths._

Reading this fic was just about as painful to The Ghost of (Sub) Standard Romance as it was for Marcia to hear. But for the sake of his job, his sanity, his medication, the fanfic community, future publishers, and the world in its entirety, he kept his misery to himself as he sniffled and gagged his way through the massively botched piece. He seemed to be somewhere near the halfway mark with the end nowhere in sight, but how could he tell? He hadn't previewed the piece (it had been on his desk just that morning and that was simply _it_ for him), and now he wished desperately that he had. It wasn't going much of anywhere at all, but reading it aloud did seem to be having the desired effect. He began anew.

  


"''Sallie let's go to the movies' said Mae one day while they walked in the park. Mae thought. 'Sure why not.' said Mae. 'But I can't stay for long. I have a lot of homework.'

"''Yeah damn Mrs. Idiot' laughed Sallie sarcastically."

  


The shade looked up for a moment to study his pupil's face. Already she was developing a facial tic, and an expression of horribly shocked, naked terror. It almost suited her, in a rather sadistic way ... he wiped his brow and sneezed, using the script for a tissue. The further he went, the angrier he got, and the redder his cheeks became. He would indeed reach a fine state by the time he finished this.

  


"'So they went. Trunks fell right out of the movie screen. Sallie screamed but Mae saw Trunks, and Trunks saw Mae, and chemistry went zing a ling.'"

  


A few sentences more and Marcia was curled up on the floor, staring at him with a wildly vague and bewildered countenance, unable to stop him from speaking as he wished. His melodious, nasal voice drove her nuts, whipped the sins out of her work, crowded them into her face and ears. Each word sounded worse and worse, and his compelling eloquence only heightened the melodrama and idiocy her fiction was simply permeated with.

"''Oh Trunks,''" read the Ghost. Marcia shuddered.

"''Oh Mae.''" He continued mercilessly, probing Marcia, forcing her to explore the sheer corniness of it all. "''Trunks I hate you a lot, but oh well,' and they kissed and were in love forever after.'"

"The end," he whispered, tossing the story to the floor. "Are you ready to hear what I have to say to you?"

There was no response from the prone, inert figure on the cold, damp floor. He hurled a deep sigh forth into the air and heaved himself toward Marcia, eyes harsh but next to tears.

"Do _smart_ things," said the The Ghost of (Sub) Standard Romance. "Read your fic out loud to yourself. Read it to others. Get others to read it. Do multiple drafts. And above all, don't write junk like this and think you're one of the best out there, sheesh. Everything you do is so self-centered, self-absorbed. You say you're _the_ best, it's _your_ art, you're so good you don't need revisions like the rest of us do. And what's _worse_ is that you _won't_ see the irony. No _wonder_ people hate you." He sneezed loudly and left the room with his tissues and pillboxes, and once more Marcia Laverne Whitaker was alone with only her computer for further guidance and company.

  


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	8. Element Eight. The Ghost of Plots Rehas...

**Element Eight.** _The Ghost of Plots Rehashed._

Curled like an earthworm worm long stranded on the scratchy sidewalk and left to alone to dry to death, Marcia built up her defenses and petulantly let her tears evaporate. Still she refused to consider herself as an individual who had been in the wrong, and denied emphatically what she saw as defeat. For as she saw it, there was to be no improvement upon perfection, and therefore - why bother fixing what wasn't broke? She _was_ a good writer, no matter what _anyone_ said ...

_I don't care. I don't care. I ... don't ... care._

Wobbling, she exerted a bit of effort and rose to her meaty knees ... a position from which she slipped almost immediately; there existed on her floor an inexplicable piece of drenched fabric which declined to support her weight. She studied the thing almost as she would a stranger, with the same paranoid gaze, investigating it as thoroughly as it were possible for her to do. She felt first the fabric which had probably caused her a bruise, and next encountered the shape of a foot beneath it, and finally her hands encountered a sharp rod which prevented her from taking her physical inquiries any further. The device was of a glittering golden color and possessed an end of metallic graphite gray, something merciless which gave the appearance of a weapon.

She looked up to find an immense cloaked figure hanging majestically over her, a fog of sorts rolling out from the few openings in his expansive robes of muted black. With a creaking sound, Marcia turned her head to the side as far as it would go in order to read the scrolling type that ascended the staff this spirit held. It contained nothing but bad news, for it ascertained his identity ... of which there could be no denial, for it was too plainly true - he was the final spirit she would greet tonight, the Ghost of Plots Rehashed.

Marcia Laverne Whitaker was pretty sure that she should have been feeling happy at this moment, considering that she had lasted each of them out so far. And yet ... the mere thought of accompanying this one anywhere made her break out in a cold sweat, with mouth parched and throat patchily voiceless. Like a statue, he stared at her unblinking (or at least she thought he was, for she could not see where his face could be under that deep hood), utterly mute.

Laughing uneasily, Marcia raised a hand and waved with a desperate passion, somewhat of a discombobulated cross between meeting him and driving him off. The Ghost of Plots Rehashed raised his stave as though he would strike her down, but instead he merely reversed it - now the end which had so worried her was safely farther away, and he set to work on ... he ... Marcia gawked with shock - why, he was erasing the floor!

She reached out to stop him, but was far too inept, too slow. With a yelp and a howl, Marcia fell through the void, landing quite hard on her backside in what appeared to be none other than the peaceful Kakariko village from _Ocarina of Time_.

She rubbed her vapid eyes as the Ghost of Plots Rehashed forced her to her feet and onward, through an alleyway of sorts where original Legend of Zelda characters she had created over the years resided in groaning, writhing, _wretched_ agony. Many tried as hard as they could to rip the hair from their heads, all appeared to be very ill, and one man - an old man, helplessly attempting to tend to these desolate failures - turned to face her. Marcia's stomach fell to her feet as she recognized the deplorable, tortured visage of the Hapless Fanfiction Reader, and she quickly hid her face from his gaze. As she passed by, she could hear his evangelical voice - he was speaking to her still, though as this was the Past he knew her not. "There is _no_ defeat," he hissed at her. "No winning or losing! _Just_ relief! Just _relief!"_

She couldn't bear at all to look at him, and strangely enough the seraph looming behind her didn't force her to. This omission of a possible source of pain frightened her, and she slowed down quite obviously. Yet he never failed in his stride, and dispassionately he continued to push Marcia on ... for as wordless as he was, he seemed to have a goal they had not yet reached. In a foreign moment of brilliance, she realized where they were going, although she couldn't surmise why they would be going there. The Graveyard of Kakariko Village ...

Filmy clouds still emanating from his very being, he handed her a silver-toned mask. Marcia recognized it instantly as the Mask of Truth, and instinctively she began to whimper and fidget. He had her don it, asking her no questions and giving her no quarter or choice. He then took her not to a grave, but to a Gossip Stone, one of the ever-observing monuments of Hyrule, oddities that had been scattered about perhaps many eons ago ...

"They say," quipped the Stone with surprising seriousness, "that the terrible M.L. Writer finally died with her plots last winter due to fan arson."

_... no._

I can't care. I **won't**, dangit!

Unwilling to believe what she had heard, Marcia turned back to The Ghost of Plots Rehashed, somehow seeming to hope that he would deny what had been spoken. But from within his robes he extended a single hand, and with that hand he intended to further reinforce what he knew as true. His fingers alone dwarfed her forehead as his grip caused Marcia to wince ... The Ghost of Plots Rehashed then gave to her what were the best of his words - words perhaps not as we see them, but presented rather in a manner of _visions_, sights of frustrated anger, hacked homepages, and even ... _glee_. People were _delighted_ that the who she had been was forever passed away.

He withdrew, and the world around her melted away to reveal the next November morn of the Whitaker household, calm and abandoned as it always seemed to be.

  


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End file.
